It's Been Awhile
by The Necessity of Darkness
Summary: What if Sherlock isn't as impervious as he allows everyone to believe? Without John's attention, what if he were to return to cocaine to escape John's marriage and seemingly imminent departure? (Because I think Sherlock is more sensitive than he lets on.)
1. Underdramatic

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!" His legs tuck in just a bit more. "Sherlock!" There's a hand roughly caressing his back, biting into his shoulder blades. Pushy, pushy.

Fingers grip his kneecaps, that incessant pressure still present. John pushes him against the wall, but Sherlock slumps despite the action.

"Oi! Sherlock!" John's yelling seems to be bordering frantic, now. It was booming, before, echoing almost violently in his ears.

"'m fine," he slurs; his voice sounds incredibly hoarse. He pushes back against the doctor's face. John's so close his warm breath ghosts over the boffin's skin; he can't decide if it's pleasant or uncomfortable.

"You need help, Sherlock! Why is it you're a drama queen sometimes and then so underdramatic when you need...I don't know! _Dramatism_?" John's eyes look wet in the light; shiny even. He wipes at them.

Sherlock simply shrugs in response. His head rolls a bit, hair dangling over his eyes.

"Come on, we need to get you up." John solidifies the statement with a hand gripping the detective's shoulder. Steady, steady.

Folding his legs up, he splays a palm on the concrete, gripping hard. He gradually pulls himself forward, all the while John is incessant, pushy, pushy with his hand. Hands, plural. His other hand is now hovering over Sherlock's abdomen.

"'m not helpless, Joh-n." John looks at him incredulously; his stumble seems to prove otherwise.

"Just walk, Sherlock," he commands, allowing the man to lean into him. His head is heavy, curls brushing against his tight mouth. It's not unpleasant.

Sherlock lazily blinks his eyes, then stumbles a bit before the soldier gathers him in his arms.

"Fine, my ass," he mutters. Sherlock gives him a look, one John can't quite discern through his puffy eyes and disheveled features. He lifts his head, but it goes back down within a moment.

John can see Mary, then, only a few feet away from the car, not too far away. The doctor urges the detective to move faster, but he keeps groping around like he's just gone blind. John decides not to pester him now. Later would be different, though.

"Almost there." Sherlock gives him a look that screams," _Obviously_ ", but just turns his head, bites his lip, then continues walking. Hobbling, more like.

"John," Mary breathes. She strides over, Sherlock giving her a suspicious once-over; John might've laughed if Sherlock didn't look so guarded.

She loops her arm through Sherlock's, John gripping his opposite side. He continues to drag his feet along the ground, but the added person makes it easier, if only a little.

He swats at there hands. "I can get...into the car." John gives him another look; an answering one glares back, so he acquiesces.

Sherlock proves he can get into the vehicle, albeit he stumbles. He slowly fastens the seatbelt as Mary closes the door. "There, _see_." He sounds highly pleased with himself, which is utterly ridiculous.

John just huffs as he clamors into the passenger seat, Mary circling around to open the driver's side. "That's some accomplishment, Sherlock." He doesn't even have to turn back to feel the glare boring through his skull.

Mary climbs in, sticking the key in the ignition, adjusting the rearview mirror. She chuckles at Sherlock's petulant look. "Quite the handful you are, Sherlock Holmes."

"Probably already been informed," John murmurs. Sherlock blinks at that, but then he scowls, turning his head to the window. His Adam's apple bobs.

"I've been re-liably informed that...I am a lot of things; arse, prat, idiot, git, psychopath, child, brat. Many, m-many things much worse than...that." John frowns.

"Well, the only thing I agree with is you being a child and an idiot, but that's just because you are," John responds, glancing back to the boffin. He sees Sherlock's face twist oddly.

"Why are you making that face?"

"W-what face?" His features contort again, but the soldier recognizes it as confusion, which is weird to see on Sherlock.

"The face you just made!" John shouts back, giving Mary an exasperated look. She remains quiet, merely shaking her head fondly.

The detective places a hand against his cheekbone, glancing to the review mirror. He frowns as he admits,"It's just my face." He looks perplexed as he rakes a hand down his cheek, stopping at his chin.

John sighs. "Of course Sherlock bloody Holmes, the most observant man alive, wouldn't notice the way his facial expressions change. Bloody bull, that is." He rolls down the window, sighing slightly as he looks at Sherlock through the side mirror.

"Sorry if I disappoint you...," comes the drawled response. There seem to be...layers to the phrase though, something that makes it less shallow than it actually sounds. John decides to dismiss it, because will Sherlock really remember saying any of this tomorrow?

"You didn't even let me finish." Sherlock looks irritable as he casts his gaze outside the window. John can see him squint at the taxi on his right, most likely scrutinizing the passenger.

"Finish what?" Mary cuts in, glancing to the rearview mirror momentarily. Sherlock shakes his head faintly, then he turns back to both of them with narrowed eyes.

"The drugs; my coke. I'm _barely_ high." Bull shite.

"On the contrary, you seem to be plenty high, at least by my standards," the doctor responds, not bothering to turn to face his flatmate. Mary stays silent.

"Well, John, your standards are usually fairly low, considering the prior accumulation of girlfriends you had before Mary came along." He spits out the sentence, almost as if it's poison pooling on his tongue. Bitter, potent poison.

A sudden rush of anger surges through the soldier, but then Mary's hand is on his forearm. He glimpses her eyes, and everything about her so ardently screams," _Don't_ ".

So he doesn't.

He allows his muscles to relax as he inhales, exhales, then inhales and exhales again. Eyes closed tightly, he can't see the way Sherlock is examining his every twitch, listening to every breath.

"I apologize," he sighs, shifting in his seat as John reopens his eyes. "That was a bit not good of me."

John can tell the drugs are gradually loosening the hold on his friend; the detective's voice sounds less hoarse, his sniffles are nearly gone, and he looks more...composed. It's reassuring news.

"It's alright. I bet people have called you insensitive, too, yeah?"

Sherlock winces, almost looking physically uncomfortable as he says,"I know you love Mary, and that she isn't like any of those other women." Although John accepts his statement as true, it sounds forced somehow.

"I feel flattered," Mary grins, and the doctor can't tell whether it's because of what Sherlock acknowledged or what Sherlock divulged about him. Maybe he'll never quite know.

Either way, Sherlock doesn't grin back, and John notices his Adam's apple bob again. The detective blinks rapidly, eyes locked back onto the scenery outside of his window; maybe it's captivating?

The car crawls on in relative silence, the only noise being the air conditioning and Sherlock's inconsistent sniffles. Mary pulls the vehicle into her lot, turning the car off as she looks to John.

"Wh-y are we here? I need to be at...Baker Street." Sherlock looks almost anxious, but John's not quite sure whether to assume it's the drugs or worry.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight. After what you did, I don't trust you to be left alone," John responds, opening his car door, air sweeping over his face. Sherlock winces again, but the doctor doesn't notice as he slams his door shut.

"I'm _not_ a child, _John_." Sherlock sounds like he's mustering all of his pride as he mutters this, but the soldier finds it difficult to take him too seriously.

"Going by the petulant look blooming on your face, I'd say you've concluded wrongly," John responds, still waiting for Sherlock to slink out of the car; he _is_ holding the door open, after all, and frankly, it's kind of humid out.

The detective stares at him for a moment, then finally slides out of his seat, leaning against the car. Shuffling out of the vehicle's doorway, John closes it, turning to him.

He tries reaching his hands out, but Sherlock snaps his arms away, agitation coating his features.

"So; no help?"

He scowls at the car door before turning his gaze back to the doctor. "I can take care of myself-"

"Are you two going to argue all night, or do you want to sort it out over takeaway?" Mary calls, her eyes amused but sincere in their inquiry.

John's eyes linger over Sherlock's body, starting at his toes and ending on a stray lock of hair defiantly straying from his head. He has the sudden urge to tamp it down.

"Come on, Sherlock."

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 **A/N: A bit of feedback would be nice, if you're willing to throw me a bone.**


	2. Worried

**A/N: Thanks for all of the encouragement and reviews. Also, thank you to anyone who's followed or favorited.**

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Prodding the container of noodles with his fork, Sherlock huffs an irritated breath, glowering across the table over his glass of fizzy drink. John patently ignores him. Mary merely sips at her mug. The silence soon becomes too much to bare, and so he feels obligated to say something.

"How did you find me?" Mary pulls a face at him before heaving a long, put-upon sigh, like _she's_ the one currently coming down from a high. The soldier glances at her sideways, almost looking offended as his gaze returns to Sherlock.

"I hadn't heard from you for a while, so I, loathe to admit, asked Mycroft where he figured you'd be," John informs, taking a bite of his takeaway. Dabbing at his mouth, he continues,"He said a drug den was the most likely possibility, and I trusted him, considering he probably knows you best."

With a dramatic gesture around him, he finishes, sort of lamely,"And here we are." The detective snorts, not quite in amusement, and not quite in aggravation.

Over the next several minutes, Sherlock examines the confused wrinkles marring John's face, the far away look in his eyes. He can practically hear his jittery leg, even from the opposite side of the table, and he internally sighs at how easy it is to read what his doctor is thinking.

"I know you want to, John," he says simply,"so ask me." The soldier looks closely at him, but he just shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound in his throat; whatever _. If John doesn't want to ask, it's his loss._ Once he takes a sip of his fizzy drink, John finally speaks, tentatively.

"Why were you there, Sherlock?" His head shakes sadly, almost without him knowing. With more fervor, more anger, his volume slowly rises,"Why the bloody _hell_ were you in a drug den? And don't tell me it was for a case, because I know bloody well it _wasn't_."

Sherlock cringes; it must be that he isn't used to having fizzy drinks with dinner. Most definitely not because he's feeling guilty. _Sociopaths don't feel guilty_. "It was a mistake I didn't realize until it was too late." He suddenly feels less hungry than he already was, pushing away the container of noodles. It looks like a smuggle-turned-murder in a container terminal; not very appetizing, even if he does like a good murder.

He didn't intend for John to find out. It was an accident, a mistake to stay there as long as he did. But it was necessary if he was to be able to get high at all. Mycroft posts more dreaded cameras every time he tears them down, and so injecting himself with cocaine in a flat completely surrounded with cameras didn't seem like the smartest idea.

"That doesn't answer my question," the doctor's voice cuts through his thoughts. Mary chances a glance at the detective, then turns back to John, but then her gaze merely settles on her noodles. She remains maddeningly silent.

"I don't think you or anyone else needs to know the reason. Be happy with the fact that you could sate your doctorly needs to help someone at all," he snaps, and the rational side of his brain tells him that this might be uncalled for, but the emotional side is harshly denying the logic.

John pulls a face, and he almost looks betrayed, and, no, this is most certainly _not_ concern or guilt gnawing at his stomach. It _can't_ be, and so it isn't.

The soldier says no more, returning to his container of noodles, except now he's stabbing the food instead of eating it. Sherlock wonders why he keeps looking a noodles and thinking 'murder', but only for a moment before John grumbles,"Fine, don't tell me, but I can't help you if you don't."

"Who says I want help?" the boffin half-snarls, wishing that Mary could stop him from making it worse somehow. The noise grating on his ears, he pushes abruptly from his chair, almost swiping his container to the floor.

It's silent again until Sherlock sighs. "I want to go back to Baker Street," he says petulantly. John and his wife both give him a look, one that says ' _not a chance_ ', and so he decides it's best to back down. "Fine," he mumbles, scuffing his shoe against the kitchen's linoleum tiles. "I'll stay if I must."

Mary smiles. "We'll inform Mrs. Hudson where you're at," she offers politely, finally speaking. Her overly kind tone aggravates Sherlock further, but her voice brooks no argument. "Wouldn't want her to fret." He nods numbly before glancing at John.

"I'll arrange for Mycroft to take you back to the flat at the end of the week," the doctor declares,"because both Mary and I have to work late shifts." Sherlock watches as the soldier glances down at his watch. "It's already 8:54; we should turn in." He rises from his chair, dumping his leftover noodles into the rubbish bin. "I'll get you a blanket and pillow for the couch."

Sherlock just nods again as Mary and John head up the stairs. Looking at the couch, then at the ceiling, the boffin simply concentrates on his friend's characteristic gait padding down the hallway above him. He continues to listen to the soft pattering of the doctor's socked feet until he appears beside the couch, covers tucked under one arm with the pillow held under the other. The detective takes the proffered items without complaint, laying them on the couch.

Only when he's done does he realize that John is still standing eerily behind him. _We aren't going to have a talk now, are we, because I don't think I'm able to make it through that right now_ , Sherlock muses, awaiting something from his counterpart. It's quiet for a bit.

"I was worried about you." The soft sincerity of his voice soothes the boffin into laying down. "Do you have any idea how horrible it is to not know where your best friend is, and then find out that he's been in a drug den, high as a kite?" Sherlock supposes he doesn't. He shakes his head, but he's sure the motion is lost in his pillow.

"I didn't intend for you to worry," he supplies, looking up at his friend. It isn't a lie, but he _would_ _be_ lying if he said he didn't _want_ for John to worry, if only so he knew someone was genuinely concerned about his well being.

"Are you saying you didn't expect me to worry?" Sherlock nods, and the doctor's face softens. "You git, I'm constantly worrying about you," and the detective can't express how good it feels to know that. John smiles a genuinely blinding smile at him, and, God, his stomach actually flips.

"Go to bed, now. I doubt you've had a full night's rest in a few days." John's right; he hasn't slept well lately. Though, he's not sure why John thinks he'll be able to sleep any better tonight.

Partly because he's exhausted, and partly because it's John, he nods. _Anything for John_ , his brain chimes in. The soldier's smile widens into a grin.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John whispers, starting towards the staircase. Sherlock follows him with his eyes before leaning back again into the warmth of his pillow.

"Goodnight, John."

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 **A/N: I apologize for not updating until now, but I've just been caught up in a lot of other things lately and I couldn't get around to writing this until recently. I hope you understand.**


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